


Lightbringer

by arlathahn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Azor Ahai reborn - Freeform, But only spoilers if any of this becomes true, Character Death, F/M, George is most assuredly going to break my heart so I broke my own instead, Post ADWD, R plus L equals J, Spoilers, which let's face it probably won't happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Her story didn’t start with a sword.It ended with one.





	Lightbringer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrenbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenbird/gifts).



> It's been precisely three years, but I finally wrote a thing. A whole, complete thing and let me tell you friends, it's never felt so good. 
> 
> First things first, this is an interpretation of how Jaime/Brienne endgame could possibly go in the later books/seasons. This involves elements of the Azor Ahai prophecy, as well as Jaime's own dream pre-bearpit, as well as other tidbits I've picked up along the way. I don't expect any/all of this to become canon, precisely, but even the potential for the slightest bit becoming canon led to the spoiler tag above. As such, read at your own risk, then come seek me out when you're done and we'll have a good cry, okay? Okay.
> 
> Second, I have links, because I have inspiration, because this fandom is so meta and/or lore heavy and I bask in all of it like a sunbathing cat on a fine summer day. You people are amazing, truly, and I couldn't have done it without you (trust me, I'm about an unoriginal as it gets when it comes to plot). That being said, my biggest inspiration for this particular work would be [this](http://balladedutempsjadis.tumblr.com/post/146920367608/omnia-vincit-amor-some-thoughts-on-azor-ahai) one, right here. I won't spoil it for you, and you'll get the gist soon, but it's a fantastic read if you're in the mood and have tissues handy.
> 
> There are other inspirations, some large, some small, and they will be cited accordingly below. Of course, none of this would be possible without you, whoever you are, so thank you. This fic is very close to my heart for a multitude of reasons, and I can't tell you how excited I am to share it, at long last. So here, have an electronic hug and a sweet dish of your choosing and anything else your heart desires - a gift, from me to you.  
> 

 

 

> _We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy._
> 
> _―George R.R. Martin_

 

* * *

  

It doesn't begin, as most might expect, with a sword.

You suspect people will think the obvious: that you got sick of the bickering, the badgering, the near constant name calling, and one day it was all too much. One day, you picked up a sword to fight back. Vengeance, they would call it. The sweet, righteous revenge of Brienne the Beauty.

And they would be wrong.

The truth is far more simple, and far more boring, than any of them realize. You didn't know any knights on Tarth, didn't even know the meaning of the word as a young girl. No, it was always some ingrained thing, some indefinable goodness deep within your heart that wept at the world's cruelty, that lashed out at the status quo, that yearned for adventure and excitement and acceptance but not necessarily in that order.

When people look at you now, you know some still see Brienne the Beauty. Perhaps a precious few might even see Brienne the knight. Even fewer still may recall the time they spit Kingslayer's whore in your face. No matter the titles they crown you with, the end result is the same: they look at you and presume to know your story, from your humble beginnings on Tarth, to the war with the Others. After all, when all your life's accomplishments are summed up in a few short sentences, how complex could it be? What more excitement or adventure or heartbreak could there be but that which was already written, or sung, or heard? They may regale all manner of tales, superfluous and grandstanding, and some parts may even be right. Some may even be clever, or funny or brave. Or maybe it's all sadness and gloom, the way most tales worth telling are. On your better days, you imagine they'll write you in a book somewhere, next to Ser Jaime perhaps, with a few lines telling your most famous deeds.

You know it doesn't do to waste time on such silly notions, but sometimes the swift current of hope sweeps you up anyway, despite your most noble intentions. It's those moments, raw and vulnerable and overwhelming by nature of sheer intensity that you wish to write your own tale. It wouldn't be hard, for you have so much to say. How to say it though, how to properly convey each moment, how to instill its importance—that is the difficult part.

There are so many beginnings, it's near overwhelming. There are so many, it doesn't strike you to think about the end. It's never been your focus, or your priority. Perhaps you imagined your own demise as a distant stranger on the horizon, but even then, you did not fear a heroic end. You would give your life for your cause, and that was always a simple fact. In your naiveté, it never crosses your mind that your end could come while breath still enters your lungs, but not another's. It never occurs to you that your heart could still beat, while another's stops. It never occurs to you that an oath may be broken, a dream shattered, but also a spring promised, a future fulfilled. You would never have thought that it could be both, and it could be neither, and it could be something in between.

They would never have guessed it didn't start with a sword.

You never would have guessed it ends with one.

 

* * *

 

He has a burning, magical sword.

It’s something straight out of a dream, and Jaime agrees, admitting in the darkest of nights that he’s seen this before, seen _you_ before, and even that small admission is anything but when it comes from Jaime Lannister’s lips. You would never have guessed this is where you would be at the end of all things; it’s so much bigger than you could have predicted or imagined, and so, so much grander. It’s you and Jaime, side by side, burning brighter and brighter, fighting harder and harder and winning, for all that.

It’s staying up late by candlelight when the rest of the world grows dim, Jaime sitting close, so close every breath brushes you against his shoulder or him against your thigh and it’s—it’s quiet and peaceful in a world that is anything but. It’s a center to the chaos, it’s a light in the storm, it’s a magical flame that never runs out.

It’s something straight out of a dream, too good to be true.

Some part of you whispers that it’s selfish to enjoy this companionship while the world burns and freezes and burns again, but another part relishes in it, all of it, every second. This is everything you were ever made for, everything you’ve been fighting for since you were old enough to wield a sword. This is every vow you’ve ever taken come fulfilled, even if it’s vastly different than the words spoken at the start. This is bigger than Renly, bigger than Catelyn, bigger than dragons and queens and lands and houses. This is the _world_ , the world and Jaime, and you want to weep at the overwhelming joy at belonging, _finally_ , in body and spirit. Here, at the end of all things.

It may be too good to be true, but for this moment, right now, you wouldn’t change a single thing.

The maester keeps his eye on you, a foreboding look in his eye that disappears the moment you return contact. He keeps his doubts carefully hidden, but you have seen enough fear in men’s eyes to recognize the look, however fleeting, even if you cannot discern its full meaning.

Even if you don’t want to.

 

* * *

The truth is, your story isn't really about you at all. It isn't all fighting and japes, swords and shields. It is these things, but it is also not these things at all. Or at least, not only.

You used to wonder, sometimes, why the gods put you on this earth. You would pray and pray and in your more bitter moments, question the reason you were made the way you were. What possible purpose could there be for your existence besides fighting? Were you good at nothing else except bearing a sword, enduring the butt end of jokes, standing out wherever you went? You never really expected an answer, but you got one anyway, months and years and lifetimes after you stopped asking.

It seemed a cruel twist of fate, but then, you did get what you always wanted, didn't you? A pity you didn't stop to consider the wisdom of such questions sooner. A pity you didn't stop to consider the cost of a god's justice.

Every war has its heroes.

And every victory comes with a price.

 

* * *

“You know, my lady, I’d rather like to see Tarth one day.”

Jaime drawls _my lady_ the same way he once drawled _wench_ , but the sparkle in his eye is different, now. Still enticing you to banter, despite the knowledge that you are as awkward with words as you ever were. He knows this, and still he tries. You’d applaud him the effort if it wouldn’t stroke his ego to do so. As it stands, your eyes narrow in a skeptical glare.

“Why?” you ask, before flinching as his flaming sword rushes past your left shoulder to impale a wight. You hadn’t heard or seen it coming, but you refuse to admit exhaustion. If Jaime fights, you fight, simple as that.

“Don’t worry,” he says, but the words are quiet, so much quieter than the battle warring around you. His wrist wraps halfway around your shoulder in a barely there tug, and when you awkwardly fumble forward he waves his sword to and fro in a grand gesture, flames erupting like a house sigil against the darkness as the wights screech and falter back.

The fight is constant after that, wave upon wave upon wave of undead clawing their way through the ice to grasp at your ankles and your arms, desperate to drag you down to the cold hell underneath. Your sword reduces most to mere shards of glass, and those remaining burn. Jaime makes sure of that.

You’re so caught up in the blood rushing through your veins, the heart pounding in your chest, you hardly notice Jaime smiling across the bridge, that dangerous shimmer in his eye all too familiar. It spells trouble for you, humor for him.

“So. Tarth.”

“Tarth.”

“What do you say?”

“What do I say to what?”

Jaime rolls his eyes, exasperated, but the crinkles near his eyes haven’t faded.

“Are you going to take me one day, wench?” He reverts to the horrific nickname as easy as breathing, but his voice is light, airy. A joke between you, then. You refrain from rolling your eyes, but it’s a near thing.

“You’d be bored.”

“Nonsense, I’d be with you.”

“Like I said, bored.”

“On the contrary, I find your company rather pleasant.”

His smile is too much. So playful and eager, tempting you to take the bait and just this once, you wish you could claim his foolish offer as easily as he proffers it.

Instead your cheeks flush like they always do with any measure of proximity or compliment or _both_ , and just like that you’re wholly aware of how clumsy and absurd and homely you must appear. He’s made you _soft,_ this was his doing. It would be simpler to call it weakness, but you can’t blame him, even in the recess of your own mind. You can’t blame him for the way you seek him out for meals, the way you guard his flank during battles, the way you listen, breathless and intent when he tells you stories of King’s Landing, of Cersei and Tyrion, of dragons and armies and the long road to find you. You can’t blame him for any of these things, and you certainly can’t blame him for the longing deep inside, a burning desire more hopeless and devastating than any oath you’ve kept or broken combined.

You cough, awkward and embarrassed and flushed head to toe.

“Fine then,” you say, more confident than you feel, and the way his eyes widen in barely suppressed shock makes you want to laugh, but this is not the time for laughter. “Win this war, Jaime Lannister, and I’ll take you to Tarth.”

You say it with all the surety of a vow, a most holy task, and maybe it is a little funny. Just a little bit. Jaime raises a brow in disbelief, or perhaps it’s simple mischief.

“Why is that a challenge, my lady?” His smile spreads until it’s a near lopsided grin.

“Perhaps.” It’s as close to a confirmation as he’s going to get, anyway.

He looks down at his sword, bright and warm as ever, fidgeting the hilt inside his palm in a slow circle before a low chuckle escapes. When he glances back to you, it’s with a fierce gaze as handsome and cocksure as ever, but somehow somber, for all that. It occurs to you that this should be ridiculous, trading quips with Jaime Lannister in the midst of snow and darkness and death. _A great blundering fool_ , you think, and don’t know if you’re referring to yourself or to him.

“For Tarth, then.” Jaime sheaths his sword carefully, then offers his elbow like the knights of old. It’s deliberately ridiculous, you both know it. But somehow intentionally sweet, too.

You smile.

“For Tarth.”

You may be a fool, but.

 _Jaime_ and _Tarth_ has a nice ring to it.

 

* * *

You find him, after the makeshift meal of grub they’re serving in one of the houses. You don’t know if it’s early or late anymore, but the technicality of time doesn’t much matter either way. Here, it is always dark.

Most nights you find each other like this, before dinner or after. Sleep is on short supply and everything goes in shifts these days, but rest, you’ve found, is not easy to come by. Too many demons haunting your footsteps, perhaps, or too many memories. That’s not to say they’re all bad, but after everything you’ve been through together, you find solace in the man sitting across from you. There’s a certain familiarity, a certain kinship you’ve yet to find anywhere else, and the affection that wells in your throat, threatening to overflow, feels all the more potent and precious for it.

Jaime sits on a log in front of one of the many campfires flittering about, sword in hand like it is most nights. You’ve seen him fight with one hand, then the other, and you’re not too proud to admit you’re pleased how far he’s come. He may never be the swordsman he was years ago, but he still _is_ , and that’s the important part.

Just like most nights, you do not announce your presence, sitting beside him with nary a word, and just like most nights he doesn’t so much as look up to acknowledge your presence. _This is familiar_ , you think, and wonder again with a distant sort of contemplation if it is wrong, to bask in the simple joy of his company, to feel your pulse flutter when your arm brushes his. It is not the time for such foolish dreams, but then, you wonder, what else is there? What is left, but this?

What is not familiar, then, is the slight shift from Jaime’s side of the log. It’s a subtle thing, one you might not have noticed if you were not always aware of your bulky frame, larger than his, taking up most of the small, shared space. But you are aware, and he is moving, but not further away to find more space. No, he moves into your side just so, just enough that your thighs touch and _hold_ , and it’s utterly absurd but you swear you can feel a literal spark of heat through the hard northern clothes you wear, and you wonder if this is how he feels each time he draws his sword.

He still doesn’t speak, and you have no mind for breaking the silence. It surprises you then, that even with this subtle change in routine the awkwardness that afflicts you so easily does not take hold. The night is still pleasant and peaceful the way it always is, even if another, quieter part of yourself longs for more of his touch.

It doesn’t do to dwell on such things.

“It’s beautiful,” you say instead, gaze fixed on the weapon in his palm. It’s an unnatural flame, like nothing you’ve ever seen. It glitters and shines, all raw power and sharp precision, but it’s not unpleasant to look upon. On the contrary, the specks of red and orange deep within the blade are mesmerizing, almost more so than the man wielding it.

The flames dance and flicker across his face, shrouding half his face in gold, the other half in shadow, but it’s not an overwhelming light, anymore. It’s a soft hue, like the last rays of sunlight, and you find it matches his contemplative expression perfectly, almost as though it…knows.

“Yes,” Jaime replies, still looking at the sword. “It is.”

He looks different here, you think. There's still that assurance about his shoulders that is always present, but there’s something else, too. An ease in his posture, like a weight has been lifted despite the darkness enveloping him.

When he looks at you, it’s a sharp movement. “Would you like to—”

The question trails off, but the offer is clear. You nearly refuse on instinct, out of respect, maybe, but the look in his eye gives you pause. It carries the same relaxed posture as his profile, but directed at your head on means you receive the full force of its intensity, and it's—well. It's hypnotic as ever and that makes your position precarious at best, doomed at worst.

He holds out his left hand in offering, which also means crossing his smaller body across your larger one, and just like that your earlier wish is fulfilled, except you're not ready, you're never _ready_ when it comes to Jaime Lannister. Just when you think you have him even remotely figured out he surprises you once again—sometimes in a ridiculous manner, sometimes a serious one, but always, _always_ for an audience of one. It's one of the things you utterly appreciate about him, that despite his glamorous appearance, he never puts on airs for you. He gestures and he jests, to be sure, but in private he is nothing but this: no kingslayer or oathbreaker in sight. He is simply Jaime Lannister, with all his faults and scars.

It's something you share in common, you think. You are both so familiar in armor, and both so vulnerable out of it.

Perhaps that's what makes your right hand meet his left halfway, bridging the gap between worlds.

 _He's warm,_ you think, heady with it. Your palm envelopes his fingers easily, but he doesn't pull away like you expect. He doesn't move at all, in fact, and it should be an awkward fumble of hands, but instead the world boils down to this point of connection, this _heat_ , and it's still other-worldly, this flame, but it's also so very, very _right_.

It feels a little like fate, a little like destiny, and when your eyes go from blade to Jaime to blade again, you're sure he can read the excitement in your eyes easy as anything, but for once in your life you don't feel the need to hide, or apologize, or fight. Maybe it's the proximity, maybe it's the warmth between you that makes you giddy and foolish in a way you haven't felt in years, but one thing is sure.

You never want to let go.

When you look at him and smile, it's utterly devoid of any thought of your ruined cheek or your crooked teeth. All the nicknames, all the jokes, all the self awareness goes flying out the window, and all that remains is pure, unadulterated joy, and you don't even know _why_. You couldn't put a finger on it if you tried. All you know is your life is reduced to the man in front of you, and somehow, someway, everything just...fits. He trusts you, respects you as woman and swordsman and that is—it's everything you've ever wanted and more. So, so much more.

Which is to say, you're not expecting it when Jaime Lannister drops the sword entirely, leans forward those precious few inches, and kisses you.

You're so close, you don't know how it catches you by surprise. After all, it's not as though there was very far to go, forward or back. It's just that, you're _you_ and he's _him_ and this was...never in the realm of possibility. This was an abstract dream you could never put into concrete thought, despite the deep, deep musings of your heart.

It's not a particularly deep kiss, not that you have much experience on the matter. His mouth is warm, warmer than the rest of him combined, but it's a soft, tentative thing. Not a clash of forces or a battle of wills, but also not a rushed, sympathetic action in the least. It feels akin to a question, but one with purpose, and despite his initial urgency bridging the gap between his mouth and yours, it's still a timid, newborn thing. But then he pauses for breath, and just the feel of his hot breath ghosting over your lip is _obscene_ , so borderline indecent it makes you preen on instinct, drawing closer and closer still.

There's still that same confidence as earlier when he rushes forward once more, and your heart flutters all over again from the intent alone. There's a hint of desperation this time, perhaps, or maybe it's just Jaime, all Jaime, in this kiss. The intimacy of his bottom lip catching yours as he draws back slowly, so utterly unapologetic, makes your eyes quiver with unsuspecting tears and it's embarrassing, how such a simple thing evokes such an overwhelming current of emotion, but it does and you won't apologize for allowing yourself to keep this one good thing, this _one selfish thing_ , just this once.

When he pulls back, he looks about as terrified as you are, and just that, just the _thought_ of Jaime Lannister being half as nervous as you feel gives you an ounce of courage, of hope.

There's a moment then, when you do nothing more than stare at each other in perfect silence. Gauging, planning, deducing the next play and it's not so different from swordplay, really, except how it's not the same at all. Jaime breaks first, looking down at your lips while his own breath remains just a touch short of breath and _you did that_ , you made him this way, too, and just the thought of it makes your blood damn near boil. It's a dangerous game you're playing, you know, and by the time those green eyes find blue, you know you've lost.

Defeat has never felt so sweet.

 

* * *

You've loved him for longer than you care to admit, even to yourself, and maybe that, right there, should have been your clue. Maybe he was always your downfall, your doom, your beginning and your end. Maybe irony and fate have always had their hand on you, on him, on you both. A few short years ago you never would have believed it, never would have entertained the notion of Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the oath-breaker.

The other half of your heart.

 

* * *

 

“I wasn’t kidding, you know. I really would like to see the sapphires.”

There’s a pause, one second, two seconds, three, then a wicked grin passes over his face. Those emerald eyes rove over your form before landing on your face, and what you see there makes your skin itch. He looks dangerous, seductive. Everything about him spells your doom.

You’re loathe to admit it’s a good look on him.

“But then,” he muses, “I have one right here.”

His hand brushes your arm, back and forth then back again, gentle and light like a warm summer breeze. Simple, easy. Everything with Jaime is easy, even as it makes your skin crawl, your cheeks blush, your insecurities thrive. How the complicated can become such a blessed reprieve is beyond your knowledge, but one thing is certain: he reels you in, holds you, captivates you in every way. Every time.

“ _Brienne_ ,” he whispers in that way of his, teasing and lilting his vowels just so, and your heart breaks a little each time your name passes those lips. Your face erupts in flames, you can _feel_ your whole body growing warm, but it’s not just embarrassment, this time.

“Brienne.” It’s firmer this time, and you can hear a smile simmering just beneath the surface. A joke is forthcoming. All is quiet for a moment, then, “the once maid of Tarth.”

If those same words were spoken from anyone else, you would bash their face in, sneer, fight them in melee. From Jaime though—well, you still want to bash his face in, sometimes, but you also rather enjoy other things involving his face, too.

It should be ridiculous. It should make you stutter and falter, fight or flee. It’s laughably forward, even for him, and surely that makes it a jest like all the rest.

But you know him. When the light flickers and the smile fades, there’s no joke waiting on the other side. There’s fear and there’s hope warring across the handsome planes of his face, but there’s nothing laughable about it. Seconds tick by where nothing happens at all. Nothing but you and Jaime and darkness, nothing in the world that matters but this.

There is a question beneath the bravado, as bold and dangerous as it is simple and sweet. There is a question, then there is no question at all. It’s simple, easy. Like something straight out of a dream.

“Once,” you repeat, and his eyes shine as bright as the magical sword at his hip.

You never want to wake up.

 

* * *

 

Your instinct was half-right. It wasn’t too good to be true, but it was too good to last.

Fate always had its hand on you, and sorrow always followed you, right from the start. From your very first breath.

To his last.

 

* * *

 

It’s the maester who figures it out. Samwell Tarly. He’s done extensive research on the Others, killed one himself before they were an army of undead climbing the walls and usurping the sun. You’ve heard him talking near the campfires, teaching and instructing but also caring and nurturing. He’s a good person, this much is obvious. 

Which is what makes it all the worse when Jaime falls.

You know before the shouts start, before the Others screech and the Brothers burn and the earth damn near breaks with the force of sheer chaos. The clouds part and a few precious rays of sunlight shine behind Jaime’s helm casting his shadow, large and other-worldly, on the battleground below. When he raises his hand your heart stops and time slows to a near halt, and that is the moment when you see. In the hairsbreadth between life and death, victory and defeat, you see a glimpse of a world after the war. You see the sun, whole and warm and bright and you see him, a perfect golden warrior, becoming the protector he was always destined to be.

Just like the parting clouds, it’s a beautiful, captivating sight.

His sword swings downward, the final blow mere breaths away and then—

—then it ends.

One moment there is a giant mountain of a man dueling the former lion of House Lannister, a battle for which there will be songs, glorious and triumphant and happy, so happy, and the next moment the very earth is being torn apart as both warrior and beast fall with a sickening _crack_.

 

* * *

 

The wall crumbles, the Others retreat, the sun draws back behind the clouds. None of it matters.

The magical flame burns out.

The maester, Samwell, steps forward. He looks to Jon, who nods his assent, but stays otherwise silent. There’s a look in his eye, too, but it’s more than mere sympathy like the rest. You wish you couldn’t recognize the expression, but you’re all too familiar with regret.

Sam's next target is Jaime himself, his face cushioned on your oversized thighs, his cheeks cold in your palms. He hasn’t stopped coughing blood since it ended, and you know there isn’t much time.

Finally, Sam looks to you. The foreboding look in his eye has increased tenfold, except this time, he doesn’t look away.

“There may be a way.”

 

* * *

 

“I love you,” Jaime says, and your heart cleaves straight in two. You can’t, there’s just no way, no matter what the maester says there’s simply no way you can—

—you pierce his heart before any words can escape. You close your eyes, you grasp the hilt and you _shove_. It’s deep, deeper than necessary, and your eyes press closed so hard the force of it hurts.  Everything hurts. You’re a coward and a murderer and an oathbreaker all at once; you are finally everything you have ever despised and the one person who held the cracks together just perished at your hands so you could maybe, _maybe_ , save the world when you would rather save him instead.

When you do open your eyes, it’s not like seeing is much different. It’s too dark, and your eyes are overflowing with tears so large the world appears one giant blur. You’re so far removed from yourself you can’t feel the snow or the tears at all, only the warm, sticky blood seeping from Jaime’s back onto your palms.

 _Oathbreaker_.

You wipe an impatient hand across your face, ready to do— _something_ , what you don’t know—when an irrational, desperate rush takes hold, an urgency to take back the last few minutes and to start over, to run away, to go back to Tarth, to escape the war, to do anything at all if it means being with him, having him back here, beside you, _with_ you—

—but then you see his face and the truth makes your heart stop cold. It’s over.

He’s already gone, face peaceful and devoid of life. He looks as handsome as he always did, whiskers framing his face and a trace of silver in his hair, those green eyes peering up at you, like they did so many times before. Except they’re not lifeless, like you might expect. No, there are wrinkles lining the edges of those too-mischievous eyes, a faint smile on his lips and it’s wrong, it’s so _wrong_ , but he looks…

…he looks _happy_. He looks goddamn thrilled that he just died in your arms. Like he always knew this day would come, like he dreamt it just like the sword, like he’s—like he’s _glad_ it was you.

“Then it’s finished,” you hear Sam say, distant but close and you want to _scream_.

There’s a crowd gathering around, eager to see the late great Jaime Lannister covered in snow and blood, laid to rest by his lady love. Jon pushes them back a respectful distance with nary a word. Any other time you’d be impressed, grateful even, but not now.

Now you hold Jaime’s handsome, snow covered face and think, _he looks so free_. Now you look at his crooked, carefree grin and think, _I love you._ Now you take your time staring, like you never allowed yourself before and think, _this is the end._

There is another battle yet to come, another war left to win. The people’s story doesn’t end with Jaime Lannister’s death, it ends with another chance at life. It ends with the dark night before the dawn. It ends with a battle for the ages, a fight for the lost, a song for the future.

You look up at Jon as comprehension dawns. Before, you thought the look in his eye was mere sadness at this war, for everything he had lost. The North, the Starks, the family he never knew. Now you know. Now you see. It wasn’t death he was fighting.

It was life.

You nod, a slight, tentative thing, and Jon returns it. Teardrops fall from both your cheeks and you wish, more than anything, you were eloquent with words, but this is too much. It’s all just too damn much.

You will fight for them. You will prevail. But your story won’t end like the songs do. No matter whether you live or die on the morrow, you know, with the same sadness Jon does, a piece of you has already been lost.

Your story didn’t start with a sword.

It ended with one.

 

* * *

 

There’s no time for a proper burial, and it’s just as well. The Others will be back before long, their defeat at Jaime’s hand mere temporary at best, and everyone knows. There isn’t time to waste, and besides, it seems a bit prejudice to bury one admittedly instrumental warrior when the rest simply burn.

You’re not the only one who has lost.

Jon approaches you with sorrow in his eyes and a newly crested scar along his brow and tells you with a downward turn of his lip there isn’t time.

“It’s no trouble,” you reply, and continue sharpening your sword. It burns with magical flame – blue, just like your eyes.  Jaime would like it, you think.

Jon pauses, awkward. “Is there anything you’d like to—”

“No.” You pause, breathe in and out to collect yourself. Jon doesn’t understand your distraction techniques the way Jaime does. Did. “No, it’s fine. I—I have a plan, after. If there is an after.”

Jon nods like he understands, though you suspect he doesn’t understand at all. He takes his leave but he does not request Jaime be burned like the rest.

That, at least, is a small comfort.

 

* * *

 

When it’s over, everyone breathes a sigh of relief, but relief is not forthcoming for one such as you.

You offer goodbyes to Jon first in the form of an outstretched hand, but he ignores the gesture completely and wraps his arms around your waist instead. It’s unexpected, borderline unwanted except for the sheer joy of his chuckle as his breath brushes your nape and something in you breaks a little more at the feeling. _How many tears can one body hold?_ you wonder as your lashes glisten, but when you pull back his eyes are shining too, and then you’re both laughing, awkward but sweet, and it’s—nice. You never expected to find a second form of companionship here and now, of all places and times, but it’s a breath of fresh air, like the first taste of spring. Maybe there’s something to those songs, after all.

“Come visit us sometime,” Jon says, still smiling. If Jaime’s smile was mischievous, charming but dubious, Jon’s is utterly uninhibited, foolish and warm.

“I will,” you reply, and find you mean it.

On your way out you shake Samwell Tarly’s hand, any temporary begrudging at his once unfathomable plan long gone, and his smile is just as sweet, if a touch uncomfortable. There’s a girl a short way behind him, a babe in her arms, and when you wish him well with his little family of three, it’s with a sincere voice and kind eyes. His gaze shifts sideways, as awkward with conflict as you are with words, but the cloud of doubt previously covering is vision is gone, replaced with a simple, welcome shade of brown.

No words are needed, you think. He has his family, and you have one last quest.

It’s enough.

There are others, some alive, some dead, but you slip away before any of the ceremonies commence. If there are to be stories and songs, you’d rather not be around to hear them. Besides, it’s not for you to enjoy. You leave a note for Tyrion, though. You haven’t seen him since the madness started, but he should know where you’re going. Just in case he’d like to visit—both of you.

With your business concluded you ride south, but not to what remains of King’s Landing, as some might expect. No, that land no longer suits him. Instead, you sail to a land you thought you might never see again, to the last place you would expect Jaime Lannister to visit, but the last one he requested nonetheless. You’re not sure what remains, but what is left standing hardly matters. So long as there’s still a spot of green pasture left by the sea, that’s all you need.

That’s all he needs.

 

* * *

 

 

There is, as it happens, still a patch of green pasture left by the sea.

There is also much more than that.

You suppose it’s warranted, surrounded by death and destruction and darkness for so long that you might assume otherwise, but Evenfall is anything but fallen. No, it's become something of a fortress, far more than its mere stone walls might suggest. Inside and out the once sparse island you called home now bustles with refugees of all shapes and sizes, from all manner of houses. Where once there were banners and allegiances, mottos and cultures, now there is this: ships in the harbor, fields bearing fruit, families with little ones, and all of this united by a common cause. There is nothing ulterior about this place, no secrets, no heartache, no war. It’s simple, easy. You stand on the cliffside of Tarth and think, _this is life_. This is hope. It perseveres.

It goes on.

You don't know if the same can be said for yourself. A part of you still feels stagnant, lost. You never needed a man to identify yourself, but a piece of you is missing just the same. You can’t smile at the sight before you without your eyes brimming with unshed tears, and it’s a queer thing, this ache that plagues your heart. It feels part joy, part sorrow, and every muddied thing in between. The world has been born anew, but you don’t know where you fit in this new age. Not that you did before, but for a moment there, the only moment it mattered, you _did_.

You did.

Maybe that’s the reason why you cannot bring yourself to breach the castle walls just yet, why you cannot claim your place at your father's side, if he yet lives. Maybe that's why you retreat to a quiet solitude some miles away instead, to a small patch of green you haven't visited since you were one and six.

It's a sweet haven of nature, with singing birds and bright yellow weeds, and green, green, _green._ Green is everywhere save a narrow path facing north, like a compass leading to the bluest sea for miles around. This is the one place left untouched by the war, the one part of your life from before that feels utterly indifferent to the world at large. It feels magical, in that sense. It feels right. This was your sanctuary, once.

Now it is his.

When all is said and done and Jaime Lannister is little more than a body beneath the earth and a lump in your throat, you hold Oathkeeper in your arms tight, you close your eyes, and you dream. The breeze brushes your skin like his hand once held your face, the still too-cold temperature like the chill of his palm and for a moment, it’s like he’s here, right in front of you. You see his smile behind your eyelids. You feel his laugh warming your cheek. You taste his kiss, desperate and sweet. You hear those dying little words on repeat.

It’s time.

“I love you,” you whisper, through salt and tears _._

It's like something straight out of a dream.

Oh, how you want to wake up.

 

* * *

 

Jaime Lannister's final resting place is a hidden alcove on the seaside of Tarth, close enough to Evenfall to count but still far enough away to feel adventurous to a once small girl with big dreams. If you look hard enough, you can see a bedroom window peering out from the castle far above, and a white curtain flapping in the breeze like a beacon. There, in the ground below, lies a greatsword once known as Oathkeeper, and a block of stone with a knight’s final testament ingrained on a plain, dark surface:

_Here lies Ser Jaime of the former House Lannister, firstborn son of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Others as champion to Jon Targaryen in his 37 th year with a sword bearing magical flame. Protected both lord and land to the end, when his oath was fulfilled at the cost of his life._

_Thereafter known as Lightbringer._

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't feel like lighting me on fire and burying me someplace remote, feel free to come cry and yell and cheer about this beautiful couple [here](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr or visit me [here](https://www.pinterest.com/arlathahn/) on Pinterest. Or, you know, anywhere else too, really. It's the internet, you can find me just about anywhere.
> 
> As promised, additional links that inspired me to write this fic are below:
> 
> [Ragnarok - ASOIAF](http://gameofthronesandnorsemythology.blogspot.com/2013/05/ragnarok-song-of-ice-fire.html)  
> [Jaime/Azor Ahai](http://gameofthronesandnorsemythology.blogspot.com/2013/05/jaime-azor-ahai-god-of-war.html#comment-form)  
> [Possible Outcomes at Evenfall](https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/3nvhpd/spoilers_all_evenfall_evenstar_sapphire_isle/)
>
>> There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.  
> -Bran's Dream
> 
>   
> Final thought:  
>   
> In my head, Jaime and Brienne somehow had time to get married somewhere between here and there, and they made a beautiful love child *that* evening, and post-fic Brienne raises the child on Tarth. So not only did she get married for love, she has an heir as well. It's still depressing, I know, but the future is not all gloom and doom in my head, promise. Just...mostly gloom and doom with a sliver of hope. Which is probably more optimistic than George's plan, tbh.


End file.
